


Nebulas on His Skin

by shhdarkishere



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insecurity, M/M, Maggots, Post-Canon, Psychological Torture, References to Canon, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Hatred, Torture, suicide idolization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 17:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21280700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shhdarkishere/pseuds/shhdarkishere
Summary: You can try to run away from your past crimes but they will always catch up to you. Crowley learned that the hard way.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

"Morning, sunshine," a raspy voice greeted him as its owner held open his right eye, his hand pulling away when he opened the second one himself and made eye contact with the pitch-black orbs staring at him. It took him a long while to recollect himself enough to realize.

"Ugh! Hastur!" he spat out in a mix of panic and disgust, but as he tried to jerk away from the hideous toad demon, he found out his whole body was tied to a flat but slightly tilted table which seemed rather familiar to Teflon. With a frown and furrowed eyebrows, he tried to wriggle his right wrist out of the leather band but to no use. That thing barely even moved. But it wouldn't be Crowley if he didn't turn to the other demon with a shit-eating smirk which showed off his pearl-white teeth and fangs that were way longer than usual for some reason. He'd almost look confident if it weren't for the cold sweat and the quivering corners of his smile. "You plan on frying me or what? If you wanted a piece of me, you could've just asked," he tried to lighten the mood for his own sake as he felt a panic attack knocking on his door.

While the serpent was trying all possible escape plans and finding out none of them worked, Hastur turned his attention to a work table standing in front of the Teflon one, seeming quite busy with whatever it was he was doing. "Looks like that hit on the head was a bit too hard for your fragile little head, was it? Do you remember anything that was decided at the trial yesterday?"

He didn't. The last thing he remembered was him going to bed after dropping Aziraphale off at the bookshop. But he did remember having a terrible dream; He was in Hell, chained up in front of Beelzebub, Hastur, and a bunch of other losers... "Oh, _bollocks..."_ Crowley cursed and his wicked grin was replaced by an almost annoyed frown as Hastur turned around with a Teflon thermos bottle. When Crowley saw the container, he groaned: "Oh, well, aren't you a funny lad."

"'Sentenced to discorporation by acid for committing the murder of demon Ligur.'" he recited the verdict while slowly unscrewing the black cap, sending the criminal's anxiety through the roof and right into Heaven. New beads of cold sweat started forming on his skin and Hastur's dead-serious face and almost-a-whisper voice didn't help it either. "I want you to experience it too, Crowley. I want you to feel the burn just like Ligur did," he growled, his voice getting lower and lower with every word as he walked slowly to Crowley's head, Crowley desperately trying to pull away from both the gross being and the deadly weapon in his hand.

The serpent didn't fear death in the discorporating sense. His vessel has died before and death itself wasn't anything brutal. It was what caused his body's death that scarred him for life; torture. He was soaked in cold sweat at this point, he felt like he couldn't breathe despite not needing to under the extremely tight leather straps. Panic was swallowing his brain like magma, leaving all rational thinking petrified in cold hard stone. "H-hey, hey, hey, we can talk about this. You know it was- it was in self-defense. You two would've killed me if I didn't fight back–"

"We were supposed to bring you back alive! Instead, you murdered your kind and now you'll suffer for it," Hastur spat out in anger and grief, screaming right into the tied down demon's ear and almost spilling the toxic liquid on himself. But when he pulled back, he smiled. "Did you know fluoroantimonic acid is extremely reactive with water?"

Crowley frowned. "I didn't, frankly. Why would I–"

"You're sweating quite a lot. Oooh, that'll hurt. It was supposed to be magic acid, but…" he explained as his arm moved above Crowley's leg and tilted the thermos ever so slightly, spilling just a few drops on his thigh.

The reaction was instant. The demon's tight pants might as well not have been there, that's how fast it burned through them. The sound of sizzling flesh, hissing, and gasping immediately filled the quiet room along with desperate efforts of jerking away from the pain. Gasping then turned into screaming as the acid dug through the tender tissue of his leg farther down, melting every cell, every nerve in its way. Stars were sparkling over his vision from the unbearable pain which along with the tears that flowed into his eyes completely blinded him so and the etch from the salt made him shut his eyes with all his might, making him focus more on the disgusting sounds of his flesh melting and sizzling like a piece of bacon on a pan – the table was Teflon, after all. How fucking funny. – and the stomach-turning smell of the damp cells and burnt fabric.

"What lovely music to my ears! And we haven't even started yet. You're in for a ride, Crowley," Hastur cheered at the loud, painful sounds crawling out of Crowley's throat. His smile was disgusting. It was filled with so much joy, hate, and spite. It made him sick.

Tears were running down the sides of his head and over his tattoo, making his short red hair wet and eyes swollen. He tried to clench his teeth with all his strength to hold in the gasps and screams but failing miserably. His snake eyes were glowing ember yellow in the room thanks to the unbearable stress he was under, the slits hair-wide. The sinews in his neck, as well as pretty much every muscle under the skin of his corporeal form, were all so tense he felt like they'd snap any second.

"Hastur!!" the serpent screamed despite his tightening throat, his word filled with all the rage and hopelessness he had inside him. "You've had your fun, I'm done, you've tortured me to insanity, you can get the job done now, let's get this over with, I'll never kill another demon I swear–"

"Shut your mouth, Crowley. I don't trust you. You need to learn your lesson," the toad demon growled with a stone-cold expression, his hand with the black cap not even flinching.

Crowley's body was shaking with the cold of the cell, the heat of the acidic reaction, and the horrible pain that was slowly but surely pushing his consciousness to the back of his mind, driving him insane. "Hastur, don't," he hissed through his gritted fangs, his tear-filled eyes glued to the bare ceiling. He choked back the word ‘please', he'd die before begging a demon for mercy by even mouthing that bunch of letters. And even after being discorporated on this day– night– whatever the time might've been, he will not even dare think about it.

"I promised Ligur you'll meet justice no matter what. After today, he will rest in peace," his cold dead eyes stared into his soul like two black holes. Just the metaphor sent the taste of bile into his mouth as he remembered he once helped create those. As the Starmaker. "I'll melt off every single limb if it makes you remember your sin."

"Aren't sins what we do?" Crowley yelled back, earning a punch to the face from the demon and a few acidic drops spilling from the bottle and landing right on his left forearm, a bolt of pain shooting through his whole arm as the liquid ate its way through the bony limb. Gasping for air, he let out a throat-tearing scream. If it weren't for the tight leather straps over his whole torso, his chest would be heaving rapidly in efforts of getting as much oxygen into his brain as possible. How easy it was slipping into the human ways of living.

And just like breathing, Crowley did another thing uncharacteristic for demons; love. 'Aziraphale!' Is he looking for him? Does he know he's gone? If they issue him a new body with scars like the last time he got discorporated, will Aziraphale abandon him because he'll see what he's done and how broken he will be after this? He could hide the small scar he earned from a priest in the 14th century during an exorcism but how in the world was he going to hide burn marks all over his body? He's going to be an abomination!

"Hell to Crowley! This will be no fun if you don't pay attention," Hastur broke him back into reality by leaning over him and pressing his free hand against his chest, looking mildly distressed that he isn't the center of his crumbling universe.

The redhead's consciousness was slowly drifting away but he'd be blessed if he let that dirty slimy demon touch him. "Don't fucking touch me," he snarled through his tears and clenched teeth which made Hastur only snicker.

"But how else would I make your vessel immortal for this very moment?" he asked with a disgusting smile and Crowley bet it brought him nothing but joy when his brows twisted and eyes widened.

"You did _what_ now?" he said despite now wanting to know the answer.

"You'll die way too soon if we keep going like this. This way I can melt off whatever I want and it'll grow back."

The horror in Crowley's eyes was indescribable. At that moment, he'd kill for a self-destruct button. He was actually going to break. "You can't do that! That's against the death sentence," he tried to object, his brain fuzzing with frantic panic when he only imagined the days and the weeks Hastur could hold him here for. Months! And the worst thing was he knew Hastur was capable of even years. The anxiety chains around his chest and throat tightened when the image of a worried Aziraphale popped up in his head. His furrowed eyebrows, and a face crooked with concern and fear. What a horrible sight. Worrying his angel was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Oh... I'm not going to keep you here forever, don't worry. I didn't get enough acid for that, and I'm not allowed to get more. Can you believe that?"

"Outrageous indeed," the serpent agreed sarcastically, having slightly gotten used to the pain on his left side which, despite the healed wounds thanks to Hastur's demonic miracle, was still there for some reason.

"The more I'll cherish these moments, though..." his voice drifted off as his gaze was glued to the tilting thermos above Crowley's right hip, the liquid inside slowly tipping over the edge of the bottle and falling right through his body, earning an ear-tearing scream from the tied up demon. "Haha! It's like pissing in the snow!" Hastur cheered over Crowley's cries and the sound of sizzling coming from the damaged flesh, the disgusting smell of burnt human meat filling the damp air of the torture chamber yet again.

It didn't take long for Hastur's miracle to activate. When Crowley tried to look down with his swollen eyes, he could see what he's never even dreamt of; the area where the acid dissolved his vessel was covered in wiggling maggots. Only the sight made Crowley's stomach do barrel rolls, not even mentioning the never-ending feeling of thousands of tiny worms inside him. He tried to wriggle them off but to no avail; he was tied too tightly, and not as he could even move much in such pain. They were only around his hip but he could feel his skin crawl all over his body.

"How does it feel to be an abomination made out of pure filth?" Hastur averted his eyes towards Crowley with a big smile which however quickly fell when Crowley decided to open his mouth to speak again:

"You tell me," he spat out through his painfully clenched fangs before gathering all his strength to actually spit on him with an expression filled with nothing but rage and disgust. It made him quite happy when Hastur flinched at the audacity Crowley still had.

"You just never learn," Hastur growled with a scrunched up face and disappointment in his voice as his hand moved quickly above the serpent's head. With a steady hand and a twitching corner of his mouth, he poured a fair amount over the left side of his chest, over his collarbone, his throat, and stopped above his left eye, all of his flesh melting under the liquid like snow. "Do you?"

Crowley has never felt more degraded, more disgusting. Maggots were crawling all over his body. He was choking on worms that filled his throat and mouth, his skull feeling like some gross, mangled beehive as the worms inside where his eyeball used to be wiggled around while making the grossest sounds he's ever heard, his vessel smelling worse than a rotting corpse in a field ditch on a hot summer Sunday. He could so clearly feel his consciously slowly fading and he was more than okay with that. He craved death at that point more than anything in the world. More than alcohol, more than his Bentley, more than his plants, more than... Aziraphale. 'Just let it be over already,' he pleaded like a child at the dentist.

From his foggy thoughts broke him a sharp pain in his chest, making his falling eyelids snap open and his lungs sharply take in air for the first time after what felt like an eternity, the walls of the breathing organ burning as if the air he was breathing was pure sulfur. A sudden rush of new energy spread throughout his body, and just for a split second, Crowley had hope again. That feeling soon faded, however, because when he looked down at his chest with his one eye he had left, he noticed a large needle sticking out into the air, moving up and down with his now heaving torso as the one strap had dissolved just a few seconds ago. He shot Hastur, who was smiling so widely Crowley thought his cheeks were cut through, a puzzled glare with despair and hopelessness pouring from his eyes in the form of pearls of tears.

"Nobody said anything about adrenaline shots, did they? If it makes you feel any better, I don't have enough acid to keep you here for much longer, so enjoy it while it lasts," he monologued with a smug smirk as he circled around the Teflon table, the thermos tilted ever so slightly to pour the content over Crowley's strapped shins, the acid completely disconnecting his feet from his thighs and if the fact that no maggots appeared that time was any indication, Hastur's demon miracle seemed to had worn off. He hummed over the screams crawling from the other's throat like snakes such as himself, slightly impressed by the endurance of Crowley's mortal vessel. 'Sturdy design. I wonder what for...' he thought to himself as he moved his hand above Crowley's chest and horizontally poured the last bits of the before seemingly bottomless thermos bottle all over, melting his guts through and through.

"It's over," he cooed to the now motionless body in front of him as if he knew Crowley's occult ghost stuck around to witness the damages in all their glory.

It was a literal out of body experience, but unlike in the humans' cases, he knew he wouldn't return in the same flesh shell he left- no, was forced out of. The sight was sickening; the torn sinews, blood, acid, and melted muscle and bone tissue flowing lazily down the tilted table, bruised and places blooded skin under and around the strong leather straps, a gaping hole in his torso where his ribcage, guts, and heart used to be. After inspecting his former body, however, he wouldn't even want to return into it.

From his observation broke him Hastur's quiet raspy voice, indicating Crowley's spirit was finally visible after the discorporation shock: "Heh, you look fucking awful. You're lucky you set your appearance to your former self. Enjoy the look while you still can. Your new body will look way different after this one," he lowly chuckled, raising the container as to show what he meant by 'this one' before uttering a few instructions about his new vessel being ready in a while so he should go to the Corporeal office.

Luckily, the paperwork had been taken care of by the court so he only had to sign his discorporation, and body handover papers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Scar reference](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/574534617114345482/635629243325480960/SPOILER_vitiligo.png)

So he was right deep down; they truly did leave scars on him. At the center, they had a huge room full of mirrors, and he's never wanted to have 483 years of bad luck more. The moment he glanced in the mirror, tears immediately started forming in his eyes anew so he had to leave early without further inspections.

As he was leaving Heaven and Hell's entrance, he caught a glimpse of his scarred face in the reflection and quickly pushed the glass door open and started making his way to his apartment.

It was an oddly quiet night. It felt like the pitch-black skies absorbed all the noise and roaring of the English capital and as he was walking down the street, his mind began to wander. It wasn't surprising, there were so many things to think about, the most apparent one at the moment being that Crowley's new body wasn't accustomed to his very specific explicit walking manner yet which made walking quite awkward by him almost tripping now and again. It was going to be a long way home. He didn't want to miracle himself home because, surprisingly enough, despite having such a perfect home, he liked being outside, he liked being amongst people - partly because of his job, partly because of the loneliness - and London's streets were always full of hundreds of chattering souls which also prevented him from thinking too much. But tonight was different; there were no chatting friend groups, no bickering couples, no screaming children, no cars. He was the only lone soul on the street. He didn't like silence, usually. Most of the time it meant something was happening or was about to happen. But as he noticed, tonight was very much out of the ordinary. He felt at peace, calm, almost... empty. He really somewhat felt like only a vessel. A body without a spirit. As if he died in that torture chamber- and in a way, he did. His spirit has been broken and torn apart on a Teflon surgery table. Oh, Somebody, he could still feel the burns on his skin. He wondered if it was just him or if it was the bright white spots on his body.

Suddenly, as he was swimming through his thoughts, he heard a loud quack. He was so lost in his mind, he didn't even notice he wandered into St. James' park. Wherever he looked, the park was empty. Then another quack came from below; it was a flock of four ducks hanging around a bench under a willow tree by the large pond. They didn't seem exactly happy about his presence, he probably woke them up. Or it could be because they haven't forgiven him for drowning their relatives when he had been there with Aziraphale. A bitter taste flowed into his mouth as he remembered their stupid argument in the last millennia. Even though it's been centuries since that day, he couldn't forgive himself for how childishly he acted.

When he reflected on it now, he didn't quite understand why he was so surprised Aziraphale didn't want to fulfill his outrageous request. He thought he just didn't want to help a demon out when, in fact, Aziraphale was only worried sick about Crowley and his safety. It was true; Crowley wasn't exactly the most stable being out there and flying pigs were probably more likely than him getting a suicide pill from his angel. That one day in the '70s, pigs were soaring across the sky. And to this day, he didn't know why Aziraphale decided to give him that bottle. Did he trust him or was he scared he might need it to protect himself? Did something happen in Heaven that he realized he didn't want Crowley to fall into Heaven nor Hell's hands? Those questions were eating him up on days like these. But he wasn't sure whether he even wanted to know the answers, so he just decided to suffer in silence since then. He was quite glad he didn't have the water anymore.

As he was wandering, lost in thought once again, he noticed he had left the park a long time ago. He caught a glance of himself as he was passing by a shop window and slowed down to a halt. He took a step closer and finally inspected his new look. His untouched skin seemed to have stayed the same; a bit darker tan which wasn't that obvious in the streetlights but it was good enough for him to make sure at least something didn't change. What was way more visible under the dim light were the vitiligo-like spots which took up almost half of his face. And it wouldn't be Hell if they gave him a body with a just naturally colored vitiligo disease, no. Those spots were bright white and he could've sword he saw them emitting a weak glow. When he gently pulled down his T-shirt and jacket, he saw the scar was continuing downwards in one huge mark. He was relieved to find out they didn't feel any different from normal human skin when he hesitantly brought up his hand and touched the mark on his face. Maybe a tad softer and smoother, they were basically scars after all. 

His eyes started to burn as new tears started blurring his vision. How could Aziraphale ever love him now? He was broken, weak. And it was all his own damn fault. "Pathetic,"  was all he could get out of him. "Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic!" his whispers turned into shouts. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees in front of the shop window, his hand covering the left side of his face, tears flowing from under it and falling on his black jeans.

"Crowley?"

_ 'Oh, no,' _ Crowley's head snapped up towards the voice, his hand still trying to hide his face, tears now falling on the ground. His eyes locked with the voice's owner, sudden panic turning his brain into a pool of white noise as his worst fears came true right then and there.  _ 'What is he doing here? Was he following him the whole way? Did he know and did nothing? Or was he searching for him?'  _ Questions were storming through his mind like a hurricane, destroying every other logical explanation in its path.

"What happened, dear? I thought-"

"**No**, don't come closer!" the demon spat out, flinching violently away from the blond who took a careful step towards him. "Stay away!" his voice kept breaking on every word as the crying kept tightening his throat with fear and grief. He tried to get up on his feet, stumbling immediately after straightening up, but luckily the shop window was quick to help him not to fall face-first back onto the pavement. While he was catching his balance, he caught a glimpse of the inside of the store and his eyes widened when he realized he was standing at Aziraphale's bookshop. He subconsciously walked to his angel's home.

"Did someone hurt you, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked as softly as possible so as not to startle his distressed friend who, out of nowhere, showed up at his house like some scared stray dog. "Please, dear, come inside and you can tell me everything," the angel cooed to the wrecked demon, his eyes the kindest angelic eyes can get. He wanted to so bad but he didn't dare to take another step when the fragile redhead didn't wish so.

Crowley always loved those eyes. He would drown in those baby blues if he could. "Aziraphale..." he let out a whisper that faded into the night. There were countless questions on the top of his tongue, yet somehow none of them came out. He swallowed them heavily and took heavy breaths to calm down. He knew Aziraphale wanted only the best for him, he told him himself every day. But he wasn't the same Crowley. Not anymore. He broke, he was weak and miserable, he wasn't worthy of his love anymore. 

He was tired. So damn tired. His left hand slipped off his scarred face to reveal the reason the angel should stay away, his arm falling limp to his side. "Leave me alone," was all he could manage before his legs gave out again from both physical but mainly mental exhaustion, and his brain shut off, sending him to the ground.

Luckily, the moment Aziraphale noticed Crowley's eyes rolling back and legs shivering, he quickly dashed towards the serpent, catching him in his arms before his body could've hit the ground. He felt like he was holding a mere feather. Crowley's body weighed barely anything since he didn't enjoy eating as much as Zira did. He took a quick look at the demon's face but thought better of staring at him passed out on the streets and carefully got a grip on his friend bridal-style, and walked them both into the empty bookstore.


End file.
